


Stasis

by panchostokes (badwolfrun)



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Catharsis, Gen, self-care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:40:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26184355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfrun/pseuds/panchostokes
Summary: Even Nick Stokes pampers himself after a long day.
Kudos: 4





	Stasis

**Author's Note:**

> only loosely based on my own experiences in the midst of a mental crisis and more than a few problems with work. And by loosely I mean heavily, minus the hotel and expensive meal. Can’t hurt Nick while I’m hurting, myself so here’s some catharsis for both of us.

He never quite understood the appeal of taking a bath. Ever since he was sentenced to them after a long day of rolling around in the mud pits of the ranch as a young child, they always felt so... _ boring.  _

He outgrew the plastic boats and rubber ducks and elected for the instant, cooling relief of a quick shower instead. 

Not only that but as he grew larger, the space in the tub was no longer the child’s pool to pretend to swim around in, but a confinement. A solitary confinement. 

At least it didn’t have a lid. 

And that’s not to say he didn’t enjoy the occasional dip in a hot tub, alone in the company of soaking beauties who would not necessarily be enjoying the bubbling water so much as they would enjoy his touch of their boiled bodies, and as he would of theirs. 

He had once walked in on his mother, by accident, glass of wine in hand in a tub surrounded with sweet smelling candles. She was only vaguely disturbed by his accidental peeking, but it was an image ingrained into his mind for more reasons than one, and as he grew older and found his place in the working class, he quickly sought to match the level of comfort that image exuded. 

It was difficult for quite many years, between demanding shifts that prevented the luxury of time and the traumas that had instilled a frustrating paranoia that somehow he’d sink in the tub while the eyes in the ceiling watched his little spider get flushed down the drain. 

So, showers it was. Cold water, five minutes max unless he had to deal with some...extreme smells on the job, then the lemons would come out and his rinse would be doubled until he was squeaky clean. If he was having a  _ really _ hard day, he’d bring a cold bottle of beer in the shower with him, letting his troubles slide away as the raining drops slid down his skin. 

But today was extra hard. Harder than hard. One of the worst days of his life and he’s had plenty to compare to. While part of him felt as if he was being over dramatic, the other part of him took a step back and truly imagined his working conditions. 

One of the  _ hottest _ days of the year with no working air conditioner in any building he seemed to step into. Covering a shift he has never worked before—sure, he stepped up and volunteered and now that at least one of his shift-mates had returned, he thought there would be a better balance of workload but nope! He had to do almost everything while his unfocused co-worker insisted on doing the “easier” tasks, going so far as to rob him of doing them just so it would appear that they were doing something. And not only that, but the wearing patience pulled to its extreme as he  _ knew _ they were having a tough time, they were out of office for a reason, after all but they came back and showed the exact same level of incompetence and laziness and disregard for the job that really, they were lucky to have, if they hadn’t been so damn understaffed. 

He sometimes wonders if he works too hard, if he’s being too harsh on others—and even more harsh on himself more than anything, which is why when Warrick tried to get him to go out with a few of his buddies, he had to turn him down. 

And check into Sin City’s most luxurious hotel—damn near a penthouse, no expense spared for the overtired CSI who exercises more patience with the fumbling clerk than anybody he’s had to deal with in the last twenty four hours. He understands their pain. 

He orders room service. A full carb load with the market price lobster and a bottle of the oldest, most expensive whiskey they had in supply. 

The overtime will cover it, he keeps telling himself. 

He’s lost enough weight to justify it, he keeps telling himself. Even if he gains a few back from this exercise of self pampering, a few pounds of flesh might do well to pad his overworked heart. 

He turns on the television, can’t stand to watch the news—he gets enough of that bullshit at work. No games on, he finds some mindless, laugh track comedy and has to shove down the mental critiques of how their problems are  _ nothing— _ but then again, neither are his. 

He finishes his dinner and draws a bath. He brings his tumbler of whiskey and nurses it as the water rises over him. It takes a few minutes to get the right temperature. He plays the softest music he can find in the absence of candles, hoping the gentle tunes can soothe his ear drums without the tickle of sweet scents. 

He does the best he can to settle but finds that his body barely fits in the tub. He crosses his legs, balances the glass on his knee as he lifts his arm over the half-wall to remind himself that he can, he’s not trapped. 

As the tub fills and a wave of warmth washes over his chest as he finally settles, he feels the tension in his sore muscles floating away—by god, that packet of epsom salt seems to have done the trick. 

He finally gets it as he closes his eyes and plunges into the water, breaking through the surface with his face immediately cooling and his scalp melting away. He finally gets it as he curls his body and he bobs in a gentle float in the water, the music muffled in the water that keeps his body in a soothing stasis.

He finally understands the luxury behind the self care of taking a long, warm soak in a bathtub after a long day’s work. 


End file.
